


Secret Lovers and Lovers' Secrets

by robotboy



Series: The Doksany Stories [10]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: s01e10 Musketeers Don't Die Easily, M/M, Multi, MuskiesRewatch, OT4, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-23 06:32:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17075168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotboy/pseuds/robotboy
Summary: How D'Artagnan finally became Inseparable from the rest.





	Secret Lovers and Lovers' Secrets

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WHOLE ASS YEAR after I said I'd finish the Doksany fics. I couldn't let it be 2019 with this still hanging, so here you have it: the endless foursome. All my love to this gorgeous little show and this wonderful little fandom. And happy solstice to purplecelery, who got me over that finish line!

For three months, they waited.

In the first month, Athos had asked D’Artagnan: ‘When did you first sleep with her?’

D’Artagnan answered truthfully, insistently—it was once. Only once, before any of this.

‘Tell me what she did.’

At first, D’Artagnan stuck to the important parts: her slipping into his room; the knife in his pillow that morning; her murdered companion left stabbed in a bathtub.

Athos told him to continue.

D’Artagnan tried to be vague, to spare Athos the more vivid details. But Athos pushed, and then pushed for more, and D’Artagnan was blushing terribly as he described it.

Then he realised that Athos wasn’t angry. Moreover, he realised that the burning inside him was not the shame of confessing, and nor was it quite the thrill of recalling the liaison. It was tied to Athos’ husky tone, to the dark gaze that slid anywhere but D’Artagnan’s eyes, and to deep the tilt of his chin D’Artagnan had come to recognise when Athos wanted something very badly and couldn’t bring himself to ask.

So D’Artagnan asked him: ‘Do you want me to show you?’

Athos released a long sigh—so long D’Artagnan thought he’d made a grave misstep—but then he nodded.

D’Artagnan took him to his bed, and showed him all three of the things he’d done that night with Milady. After that, they did a great many things D’Artagnan had never done with Milady or anyone else, but Athos enjoyed them just as much.

Athos did not ask for it again, other times D’Artagnan visited his chambers. That particular demon seemed exorcised. Their nights together became not quite frequent, but not infrequent either. Athos still disappeared into a bottle, and he still cherished his solitude—though not as often as D’Artagnan might have expected. Sometimes he knocked softly on D’Artagnan’s door, and kissed him just as softly once let inside. They did not always end up undressed: instead, they might simply hold one another and drift into sleep, curled like spoons in a drawer. If a nightmare roused Athos, D’Artagnan would roll over and turn Athos in his arms, murmuring comforts into his shoulder. When Athos’ breathing evened, and he settled himself into D’Artagnan's embrace, D’Artagnan would be inordinately satisfied. To calm what stormed inside Athos—that was a gift D’Artagnan cherished.

In the second month, things began to come together.

The four huddled around a candle, late into the nights, and lay their plans.

There were infinite factors to be considered, and possibilities to anticipate. Athos advised them on Milady’s likely reactions. D’Artagnan confirmed, or contradicted—Athos deferred to D’Artagnan’s knowledge of the woman she’d become.

Upon Athos divulging his past to Aramis and Porthos, something fell into place between them all. It was a burden they could finally lift from him, with the strength of four. At first Aramis had visibly burned with questions, and Porthos had brooded over being kept in the dark. D’Artagnan had been obliged to fill the gaps when Athos struggled to talk, revealing in the process how much he already knew. That had rattled between them like a chilly draft under the door, but the Inseparables hunkered down, drawing D’Artagnan in, seeming to seal the imaginary gaps with real closeness.

She would not drive them apart—she  _could not_ drive them apart.

Even when they were not strategising, the four would gravitate to Porthos’ chambers. Whether for wine; a round of cards; Aramis reading them verse; or simply companionship; they seldom retired alone. Behind closed doors, D’Artagnan sensed an infinitesimal shift in that companionability. Aramis’ arm would snake around Porthos’ waist and remain there. Porthos drifted asleep on Aramis’ shoulder: Aramis woke him with a kiss to his temple. When Athos and D’Artagnan bade them goodnight, there was no assumption of Aramis leaving too.

There was something in the way Aramis’ touches lingered on D’Artagnan’s thigh that recalled to D’Artagnan the night he’d spent camped with Aramis. It prompted him to wonder what similar recollections Athos might have, when Aramis’ touches lingered on Athos’ neck. And D’Artagnan was already quite sure of the heated gazes Porthos sometimes shot at both of them, even and especially when Aramis was sitting in his lap.

He knew from experience that they were perfectly eager to share their affections around. But Athos—was Athos so willing to share? He’d never noticed them flirting with Athos before. Then again, he knew now how gently Athos must be pursued; had they been doing so all this time?

D’Artagnan had all the elements, he realised, but he felt he was missing the full equation.

‘Stop it, the pair of you,’ Athos warned. ‘You’re distracting D’Artagnan.’

‘So are you, from what I gather,’ Porthos laughed. D’Artagnan felt himself flush.

‘ _Porthos_ ,’ Athos scolded, but his voice was warm. ‘We need to focus.’

So they knew, then, what D’Artagnan and Athos were doing after bidding their comrades goodnight. D’Artagnan was immensely relieved. He hadn’t realised how much worry it had brought him, to keep another secret from Porthos and Aramis. Though he’d have protected Athos, and Athos’ privacy, D’Artagnan was quite ready to be done with secret lovers and lovers’ secrets.

Of course, this required a confession on his part. It sprung from him as confessions often do, in a dangerously honest moment after sex. He’d hardly had a chance to wipe his mouth when Athos pulled him up and kissed him. Athos’ hand remained in his hair as D’Artagnan settled under Athos’ shoulder, his forehead on Athos’ cheek and his arm draped across Athos’ still-heaving chest.

‘Athos,’ he spoke before he could think the better of it. His fingers danced on Athos’ collarbone. ‘You know that you’re not the first, that I’ve…’

Athos gave a soft snort. ‘You’re a prodigiously quick study, D’Artagnan, but it’s clear you’ve had  _some_ practice in this sort of thing.’

Sensing D’Artagnan was still restless, Athos took the drumming hand in his own, bringing it to his mouth.

‘Yes,’ D’Artagnan said slowly, in some vain hope he could defer saying it forever.. ‘But I meant… with…’

‘… Porthos and Aramis?’ Athos asked.

D’Artagnan’s heart skipped a beat. ‘You knew?’

‘You learned that trick with your tongue from Aramis,’ Athos said, lips brushing D’Artagnan’s fingertips.

‘Did they tell you?’ D’Artagnan asked, struggling to imagine how such a conversation could have unfolded.

‘There was…  _insinuation_ ,’ Athos said, in a tone that usually accompanied him rolling his eyes. ‘I knew I wasn’t the first one to claim you.’

Athos squeezed his hand and released it. The last vestige of worry in D’Artagnan’s heart gave itself a voice. ‘Did you want to be?’

‘I think,’ Athos said, with a particular clarity he only used in the smallest hours of the morning, ‘I might have been too afraid for that.’

‘You didn’t mind?’ D’Artagnan pressed.

Athos pulled him closer, nuzzling his hair. ‘I was envious,’ he confessed. ‘But not jealous.’

It took a full two days for it to dawn on D’Artagnan how Athos might have known what tricks Aramis did with his tongue.

In the third month, D’Artagnan could hardly bear to wait any longer.

But wait they must. It was a plot with so many variables that scenarios and contingencies could only take them so far. Until Milady appeared near the garrison, they rehearsed, trained, and reassured D’Artagnan that being shot in the arm wasn’t too likely to kill him. She may not appear for a week; a month; a season.

The plot itself kept D’Artagnan in suspense: their pantomime demanded D’Artagnan stay an apprentice, thus likely to side with Milady and abandon his friends for the Cardinal’s favour. Athos, too, was restless, looking over his shoulder for a woman who was still something like a ghost to him. Aramis and Porthos kept their not-quite-distance, too close and never close enough. They could not afford a distraction, or a disruption in their delicately-spun balance, until this was finished. So they waited, and they waited, and they waited.

It felt like a groaning crossbow string, like a storm before the first raindrop fell.

It felt like a gunshot wound to the side when he’d been expecting one in the arm.

And then Milady was banished; the Cardinal leashed; Constance in his arms but swept away once more. It was finally four of them victorious, charging in a breathless, needless, race on horseback to the garrison. An unbridled joy and an unspoken promise rang in their cries, with thundering hoofbeats and a lightning pace. They were as sweaty as the horses when they barrelled through the gates, as rowdy as twenty men—but they were four, they were four.

They had barely rounded the blind corner to Porthos’ chambers when Aramis seized Porthos by the lapels in a starving kiss. Porthos laughed into it, one arm steadying Aramis as the other fished out his key, which he tossed to Athos. Athos snatched it from the air and had it in the lock even as Aramis looked ready to climb Porthos like a tree. Porthos helped him get one leg around, which was lucky because Aramis lashed out to snare Athos’ pauldron in some wildly impractical attempt to lure him over. Athos smirked, leaning away to drag the two of them—Porthos mostly carrying Aramis—into the room.

Athos held D’Artagnan’s gaze, walking backwards to do so. The smile grew deeper and the look grew darker, and he proffered an open hand to D’Artagnan to invite him in.

‘Don’t just stand there,’ Porthos twisted himself from Aramis for a moment, to nod at D’Artagnan. ‘Get inside.’

Aramis nodded, making a pleased humming sound as he glanced back toward D’Artagnan. D’Artagnan hardly saw, unable to look away from Athos.

‘D’Artagnan,’ Athos said in the low, husky tone D’Artagnan adored. ‘Join us.’

He took Athos’ hand and was drawn into the room, so Athos could shut and lock the door behind them. Aramis clambered off Porthos, momentum carrying him to D’Artagnan. His smile was positively fiendish, and he wrapped an arm around D’Artagnan’s shoulders.

‘Athos, if you don’t kiss him, I will,’ Aramis threatened, nosing a ticklish line from D’Artagnan’s jaw to his ear. Athos dived in to kiss D’Artagnan, a fleeting, wet drag of his mouth over D’Artagnan’s. It only lasted a heartbeat, Athos stepping back and letting Aramis steal his own kiss—this one sweeter, and with a lot more flourish. They walked him to the bed, D’Artagnan letting his feet carry him, kissing Aramis but leaning toward Athos. When Aramis eased him back to sit on the mattress, D’Artagnan’s gaze fell on Porthos, where he was shedding his jacket, belts, and boots. He noticed D’Artagnan and winked, and D’Artagnan laughed breathlessly—he remembered the expression so well.

He had Aramis draped along his right side, Athos somewhere to his left. Aramis was kicking his own boots off, shedding his indecipherable layers between insistent tugs at the lacing of D’Artagnan’s jacket. Athos took over from that, positioning himself to kneel half in D’Artagnan’s lap. It left the other two room to watch, and gave D’Artagnan an enticing peek into Athos’ open shirt. It was Porthos who stepped in to ease Athos’ open jacket from his shoulders. Athos lolled back as Porthos pulled his shirt over his head. Aramis seemed determined to be touching everyone at once, but satisfied himself with stripping to his braies and suckling at D’Artagnan’s throat. D’Artagnan shivered, the sensation almost overwhelming when he could watch Athos being undressed by Porthos in front of him. Aramis began to nibble, delicate little bites in the sensitive skin, and D’Artagnan’s eyes fell closed. That was easier, not trying to see and feel the three of them at once. He could run his fingers through Aramis’ hair appreciatively, and feel the hot wash of breath that confirmed Aramis appreciated it. He could feel Athos’ thigh clenching where it rested along his own. Two pairs of hands were undressing him—Porthos and Athos? Yes, those were Athos’ arms, bare now, and the billowing softness of Porthos’ shirt trailing along D’Artagnan’s waist. They manoeuvred him with slow, gentle touches—and plentiful intermittent kisses—until he was in only his smallclothes, before fingers tucked solemnly under his chin to tilt it up. D’Artagnan opened his eyes to Athos’ piercing look, searching for assurance that this was what D’Artagnan wanted.

He wanted to ask them something clever— _do you like what you see?_  But what spilled out of him was a garbled version of the question plaguing him: ‘How did the three of you first…?’

A hearty laugh from Porthos; a roll of the eyes from Athos; a wicked grin from Aramis.

‘Ah, it was a thrilling tale,’ Aramis began. ‘Of the time I was captured by Spanish spies, and Athos was sent in a cunning disguise as a distraction, while Porthos braved a guard of fifty—’

—Aramis whooped, because Porthos had interrupted him by scooping him off the bed, divesting him of his braies, and dumping him back onto the mattress. He made a great show of removing shirt and trousers, while Aramis sat forward eagerly. Athos, meanwhile, stroked the hair falling in D’Artagnan’s eyes.

‘Truly, it was a matter of too much brandy and not enough sense,’ Athos told him.

Porthos laughed again. ‘Perfectly good sense, if you ask me.’

D’Artagnan was inclined to ask for much more detail, but the sight of Aramis mouthing a path down Porthos’ chest to his hips was distracting him. Athos was still tracing fingertips on D’Artagnan’s face, from brow to cheekbone to lips. Both of them watched as Aramis slipped Porthos’ cock from his smallclothes, stroking it to hardness. Porthos still stood, knees resting at the edge of the bed, while Aramis propped himself on his elbows to lick the length of Porthos as he hardened. There was an easy familiarity in their movements, and an undeniable fondness. D’Artagnan realised what Athos had meant when he’d said he was  _envious, not jealous_. Athos was staring too, even as his hand roamed over D’Artagnan’s chest to rub a nipple between thumb and forefinger. D’Artagnan hissed quietly, squirming until Athos gave attention to the other. Then feather-light touches inched down D’Artagnan’s waist, until D’Artagnan’s cock was straining in his smallclothes, and he was whining to Athos for more. Athos let out a huff of amusement, and D’Artagnan reached directly for Athos’ trousers. He cupped Athos’ groin to find him half-hard, and Athos sighed, his own hand slipping under D’Artagnan’s waistband.

D’Artagnan thought he could have simply watched, with the sight of Aramis’ lips wrapped around Porthos’ generous cock, and with Athos stroking him lightly. But his blood still sang in his veins from the ride, his skin tingling from the fight.

‘Not going to keep him all to yourself, are you Athos?’ Porthos said, with astonishing composure. He was looking at D’Artagnan like he was a hot meal. Athos nudged D’Artagnan to his knees and momentum carried him the rest of the way. Kissing Porthos was as all-consuming as the first time, but now he was undressed, a grin becoming a growl as D’Artagnan held his face in both hands. And this time Aramis was half-between them, dragging D’Artagnan’s smallclothes down like they’d personally offended him. Porthos kissed him until he was light-headed. His affection was a force of nature, warming D’Artagnan to the tips of his toes.

Aramis mouthed messily at D’Artagnan’s flank.

‘Which of us do you want?’ Porthos asked, ruffling Aramis’ hair.

‘ _Both_ ,’ Aramis bumped his head between their hips for emphasis.

D’Artagnan laughed.

‘Yeah? How d’you plan to fit us both in your mouth?’ Porthos flicked Aramis’ nose.

‘He’s not,’ Athos answered for Aramis. He’d settled with his back against the wall, touching himself at a lazy pace. At D’Artagnan’s quizzical look, he followed: ‘Get behind him, D’Artagnan.’

Realisation dawned, and D’Artagnan took a fortifying breath. There was no hiding from any of them how his cock twitched at the thought, especially not when Aramis gave him an encouraging lick.

‘Will you?’ he asked D’Artagnan, looking up through his lashes. D’Artagnan smoothed his hands along Aramis’ back, feeling the shift of muscle as Aramis arched for him. D’Artagnan trailed down the dip of Aramis’ spine, past fading scars and a pair of dimples on his lower back. Aramis groaned when D’Artagnan squeezed his arse, leaning back into it and letting D’Artagnan knead his skin.

A short argument took place over Aramis’ need for preparation, with Aramis insisting he was fine (‘I’ve had him in my mouth before’) and Athos overruling him (‘Trust me, it’s different’)—making D’Artagnan blush furiously. Athos found the oil, pouring it into his own palm then taking D’Artagnan’s fingers, twining them with his own. It was an intimate moment, a soft-slick touch that snagged D’Artagnan’s heart. He caught a flicker of warmth in Athos’ eye before they parted. Athos sat back, palming himself as he took in the tableau D’Artagnan made with the others.

D’Artagnan slipped his fingers down the crease of Aramis’ arse, making Aramis purr with delight. Positioned behind Aramis, it was difficult to see him sucking Porthos down. However, the view of Porthos’ face revealed just as much. Porthos was unafraid to yank Aramis’ hair, and D’Artagnan could feel the way it made Aramis squirm. D’Artagnan pressed a finger into Aramis. Aramis groaned, then so did Porthos; a chain reaction confirmed when D’Artagnan crooked the finger. Aramis responded beautifully, taking D’Artagnan with ease.

‘Give him two,’ Porthos advised, through gritted teeth. His thumb was pressing the hinge of Aramis’ jaw, easing the tension as he pushed deeper. ‘And a the third before he starts whining.’

Aramis showed his agreement by rolling his hips back toward D’Artagnan, and D’Artagnan obliged.

It was a snug fit, but Aramis was making obscenely pleased noises around Porthos’ cock. D’Artagnan scissored his fingers, working in and out of Aramis until he was confident he could fit a third finger. Aramis rocked insistently back, and D’Artagnan’s surprise must have shown on his face. Porthos remarked: ‘He’s very flexible, our Aramis.’

D’Artagnan would have liked to discover how true that was, but the temptation of taking Aramis along with Porthos was too strong. He pumped himself a few times with his free hand, and slipped out of Aramis with a clever wriggle of his fingers. Aramis shuddered when D’Artagnan glanced the bundle of nerves he’d aimed for, and again when D’Artagnan dragged the head of his cock along the cheek of Aramis’ arse.

Athos interjected himself with the oil once more, this time with his dripping wet hand around D’Artagnan’s cock.

Porthos gave a sudden grunt. Aramis had pulled off him.

‘D’Artagnan,’ Aramis said. ‘If you don’t stop teasing…’

D’Artagnan pushed into Aramis before he could finish the sentence. Aramis gasped, and D’Artagnan steadied himself, adjusting to the tight heat. He pressed his thumbs into the dimples he’d admired earlier, and gave Aramis a moment to breathe before swallowing Porthos down again. Then D’Artagnan withdrew, and sank once more, with Aramis pressing back to meet him. At first he was slow, wary of shoving Aramis forward into Porthos. But Porthos was cradling Aramis’ face in his hands, watching D’Artagnan intently. D’Artagnan felt a surge of gratitude for the trust Porthos always placed in him, and assured himself he wouldn’t upset the balance between them. Not now—not now they were four.

He thrust into Aramis and Aramis gave a stifled moan, twisting his hips in response. They built a quick, shallow rhythm together, more grind than thrust. Aramis couldn’t voice his appreciation, but his hips undulated sinuously, his back arched, and his moans around Porthos’ cock could make Porthos gasp. Porthos and D’Artagnan sent shivers from one end of Aramis to the other, passing the thrill between them.

‘That’s it,’ Porthos breathed. ‘Harder.’

Porthos directed him as if he were showing off Aramis—and Aramis loved to be shown off. Aramis’ pace was growing looser, rolling back to take D’Artagnan deeper. Porthos’ was rubbing Aramis’ shoulder. D’Artagnan, not sure how much longer he could hold out, bent over Aramis. Aramis moaned as it brought D’Artagnan deeper, again hitting the spot D’Artagnan had found with his fingers. D’Artagnan covered Porthos’ hand with his own: Porthos took it and squeezed.

‘Porthos…’ D’Artagnan gasped, not sure of what he wanted to ask for: something, anything,  _more_. He’d have kissed Porthos if he could have reached, and Porthos looked as hungry as he had when they began. They were both in Aramis, together, both of them making Aramis groan and shake and writhe.

Porthos leaned down, and his voice was a growl. ‘I’ll have you next, if you want me to.’

D’Artagnan couldn’t find words for a reply: only a desperate moan, nodding as he pressed his forehead to Aramis’ back. They were sweat-slick and stank of sex, with heat radiating from Aramis’ skin.

‘D’Artagnan,’ Porthos spoke softly this time. ‘Don’t hold back.’

Aramis let out a noise of encouragement, angling his hips back and tightening around D’Artagnan. It was so much—it was too much. D’Artagnan came with a cry, burying himself in Aramis.

Aramis gave a muffled shout, almost drowned out by Porthos. D’Artagnan looked up to see Porthos’ brow crumpled, his jaw set, looking enraptured at Aramis. Aramis continued to swallow through Porthos’ delicate thrusts, until he finally rested his head on Porthos’ thigh. Porthos smiled like the sun appearing on a cloudy day, and Aramis’ eyes positively twinkled. They stayed a moment in reverie, then Aramis cried: ‘ _Oh!_ I needed that.’

‘That, specifically?’ D’Artagnan drawled.

‘Precisely and  _exactly_ that,’ Aramis declared. ‘I feel magnificent.’

He sprawled on his back, head still in Porthos’ lap. His cock was hard and flushed, trailed with wetness, though he seemed happy to let it be.

D’Artagnan sat for a moment, catching his breath. His limbs felt loose, though threads of arousal still hummed inside him. The edge of urgency was gone, replaced by an intimate warmth of bodies surrounding him. He shuffled back toward Athos. Athos looked as aroused as Aramis, having enjoyed himself spectating. D’Artagnan slid a hand up his thigh, eyebrow raised in question.

‘Not yet,’ Athos smiled. ‘I’ve something else for you.’

‘Going to get him ready?’ Porthos asked.

Athos nodded, and pulled D’Artagnan into a firm kiss. He gripped the back of D’Artagnan’s neck as he did so, pressing out the tension around D’Artagnan’s spine. They kissed until D’Artagnan grew light-headed, his lips tingling. Athos made a deep, happy sound as they came up for air, then used his hand to steer D’Artagnan down onto knees and elbows. D’Artagnan went eagerly, taking the pillow Aramis proffered and wrapping his arms around it as a bolster. He was still sanguine from fucking Aramis, happy for the others to take care of him. Athos was working that firm touch down his spine with both hands, easing tender muscles and bringing D’Artagnan’s awareness back from his post-orgasmic drift. Athos made his way lower, squeezing D’Artagnan’s rear and easing his thighs apart. Then Athos swiped his tongue from behind D’Artagnan’s balls up to the dip of his back. The shiver it caused ran further, all the way to D’Artagnan’s scalp. Athos lapped again in long, wet strokes.

D’Artagnan whined through gritted teeth: it took effort not to keel over. Athos veered to the side, sinking his teeth into the flesh of D’Artagnan’s cheek. D’Artagnan could  _feel_ the snarl, along with the press of Athos’ ragged fingernails into his thighs. Athos sucked his skin in a way that would leave a mark. Then he returned to laving at the crease, his tongue pointing in devilish flicks against D’Artagnan’s hole. He was relentless, too quick then too slow, firm and then soft, and always, always slippery. It wracked D’Artagnan with shudders, his cock beginning to stir again with interest. He clawed at the sheets, fabric bunching in his fists, trying valiantly to suppress his cries in the pillow.

But it was impossible restrain himself when Athos’ tongue began working its way  _inside_. A long ‘ _oh_ ,’ surprised him—had it escaped him? No, it was Aramis—D’Artagnan lifted his chin to see, blinking away tears that had formed in the corners of his eyes. Aramis lay propped on his elbows with Porthos draped along his side, both of them angled to watch the scene before them. Porthos was stroking Aramis slowly. They distracted one another with kisses and nuzzles, Aramis holding Porthos’ face with reverence. His cock leaked profusely with each feather-light touch from Porthos—D’Artagnan guessed any more would send Aramis over the edge immediately. Porthos kept him in suspense, and D’Artagnan couldn’t imagine how frustrated he would be in Aramis’ position. Aramis began writhing, needling Porthos for more.

‘ _Que salvarte a ti mil veces puede ser mi salvacion_ ,’ Aramis purred.

‘… what did he say?’ D’Argagnan asked. His Spanish only extended as far as haggling over market goods, and he was hardly in a position to recall it.

‘Trust me, you don’t wanna know,’ Porthos chuckled. He brought Aramis’ rambling to a stop with a firmer touch.

Aramis relented with a shaky smile, his dark eyes heavy on D’Artagnan. The attention had D’Artagnan’s cock swelling, and his heart fluttered at the affection they showed one another, and shared with him. Then Athos licked into him with a clever curl of tongue and D’Artagnan had to bite the pillow before he wailed.

No tongue in the world should feel that long, that good, that  _much_ , but it did. Athos had him slick with sweat, spit, and oil. His tongue worked over the sensitive ring of muscle, making D’Artagnan squirm with pleasure. It was almost overwhelming, his instincts telling him to crawl away for a moment of relief. The soft scratch of Athos’ beard, his breath washing over D’Artagnan’s damp skin, and the hard press of his nose fought for D’Artagnan’s attention. Athos growled and the sensation hummed through D’Artagnan, culminating in short whimpers. Fingers were one thing; being fucked, another; the way Athos could twist, tense, and spread his tongue was a different world of feeling. He heard himself begging for more, even as he was afraid he would collapse. Athos sensed the same, and a hand reached around to scoop his waist up, supporting him. That allowed D’Artagnan to roll his hips back, inviting Athos deeper. Athos huffed in response, and the palm that was spread wide on D’Artagnan’s belly slid lower, until it was easing around D’Artagnan’s stiffening cock. Athos pumped once, twice, and D’Artagnan was fully hard again, babbling Athos’ name and promising him anything,  _anything_ , if he would never stop.

Eventually, Athos did stop, when D’Artagnan’s heart was pounding in his chest and his cock was throbbing with need. The firm, continuous lapping slowed, until Athos placed a small kiss at the tail of D’Artagnan’s spine and nuzzled him. D’Artagnan groaned, overstimulated, and fumbled to ruffle Athos’ hair in gratitude.

‘What a picture you two make,’ Aramis said, sounding breathless. D’Artagnan glanced up, and he could have said the same of Aramis and Porthos. Aramis was positively glowing as he lounged in Porthos’ arms, spattered with his own come. Porthos was curled around him, nibbling behind Aramis’ ear but keeping an eye on D’Artagnan as he did.

Athos interrupted the moment by flinging himself onto them. Aramis squawked while Porthos rolled out of the way, giving Athos the space not to crush Aramis. This was how D’Artagnan could imagine the three of them, fumbling merrily together, so familiar that they needed no graces, no words. Porthos manhandled the others until they were sitting up, Athos with his back pressed to Aramis’ chest, Aramis’ arms and legs snaking around Athos. Then Porthos took D’Artagnan’s chin between thumb and forefinger. D’Artagnan’s lips parted eagerly, and he leaned into Porthos’ touch.

‘Look at you,’ Porthos said. The warmth Porthos spoke with settled on D’Artagnan like a comforting weight. ‘How did we ever find you?’

‘Circumstances best forgotten, if we’re honest,’ Aramis levelled. Athos made a vague noise, apparently disagreeing. Aramis gave him a curious look, his chin resting on Athos’ shoulder. Athos shrugged and relaxed in Aramis’ lap. Aramis trailed his fingertips over Athos’ torso, making a winding path downward. When he reached Athos’ cock, he circled finger and thumb around the base. Athos made a low noise in his throat.

Porthos’ hands, meanwhile, were smoothing along D’Artagnan’s side as though he were a skittish horse. Then he was behind D’Artagnan, rubbing D’Artagnan’s thighs and rear, likely inspecting the job Athos had done. It was so close, and not enough too: D’Artagnan made a pleading whine and widened his stance for Porthos.

‘Alright, alright,’ Porthos laughed, patting his flank. The head of his cock, generously oiled and even more generously sized, nudged into him. D’Artagnan marvelled at it for a moment, then exhaled. Porthos continued to knead the meat of his thighs, easing the tension away. Before he knew it, Porthos was buried in him, a solid heat that filled D’Artagnan to the limit. Porthos adjusted his grip on D’Artagnan’s hips, beginning a gentle rocking motion. D’Artagnan gasped and Porthos slowed. That wasn’t what he wanted—he moved in a rhythm matching Porthos’, a shallow but undulating thing, that made Porthos growl. D’Artagnan’s cock, flagging between Athos’ and Porthos’ attentions, thickened as Porthos fucked him. He couldn’t contain his voice, groaning each time Porthos sunk into him, whimpering when he slid out by even an inch. Porthos murmured encouragements to him, a litany of appreciation and affection. D’Artagnan was already too wrecked to blush, but when he caught Aramis and Athos watching too, he felt his cock trickle with a hint of come. He thought there could hardly be more to feel than this, the way all three of them had made him their own, giving themselves over in return so readily. Athos’ eyes were heavy-lidded, the hint of his irises as dark as ink, following D’Artagnan.

‘You want him next, Athos?’ Porthos asked. Aramis pressed his lips to Athos’ throat, but he still looked at Porthos.

‘Of course you do,’ Aramis whispered, and Athos shuddered before nodding. Aramis held Athos’ cock tighter, murmuring; ‘Then we’d better keep you ready.’

Porthos was arching over D’Artagnan, to purr close to his ear. ‘Think you can take it?’

‘ _Yes,’_  D’Artagnan’s voice shook.

Porthos reached under D’Artagnan, just as D’Artagnan had earlier with Aramis. He pumped D’Artagnan’s cock and D’Artagnan almost came then and there. ‘You’re not gonna last,’ Porthos warned.

‘I can,’ D’Artagnan insisted, though he could hardly articulate further than that with Porthos still fucking him. ‘... again.’

The surprise rippled through all three Inseparables. Aramis’ brows shot up in delight. Porthos rumbled, his pace quickening into tighter bursts. Athos bit his lip, the skin turning white.

Porthos shifted upright once more, where he could push deeper into D’Artagnan. This angle made D’Artagnan yelp at every thrust, his cock leaking relentlessly. Porthos kept talking to him, but his own breath was stuttering, both of them approaching the edge rapidly. D’Artagnan tipped over first, coming without being touched and barely expecting it. It hit him like lightning, and Porthos brought him through it without relenting, until D’Artagnan’s voice was hoarse and his thighs ached. Porthos was slow and quiet when he came, little but a sigh before D’Artagnan was overflowing, trembling, longing to keep them locked together. Porthos stilled save for a firm hand stroking D’Artagnan’s lower back. He didn’t slip out of D’Artagnan until he’d softened, leaving a strange emptiness in his wake. D’Artagnan let himself collapse, mumbling gratefully as Porthos checked over him with broad, confident hands. Porthos seemed satisfied, and D’Artagnan certainly felt that way. He fumbled and caught Porthos’ fingers, squeezing. Porthos squeezed back, then D’Artagnan adjusted the grip so Porthos could help pull him upright. They met with a kiss: a brief one, sweet as honey, and Porthos bounced his nose against D’Artagnan’s.

Some force pulled them all together, tonight and all nights. Soon he was crawling into Athos’ arms, Porthos at his back, Aramis’ arms reaching around them all to find Porthos. D’Artagnan was half-squashed between the three of them, until the only thing he could do was kiss Athos. It had the edge of a bitter taste: D’Artagnan’s face heated as he realised it was himself on Athos’ tongue. His groan echoed in Athos’, buzzing between their mouths, and he realised he was pulling Athos’ hair, clasping his neck, damp with sweat and hot with need. Hands were on his thighs: D’Artagnan tried to guess blindly, from size, texture, strength, whose they were. Porthos lifting him over Athos’ lap; Aramis guiding his legs to hook around Athos’ waist. Athos’ own hands touched D’Artagnan’s face, his wide and calloused fingers reverential where they grazed D’Artagnan’s cheek. His lip trembled against D’Artagnan’s the moment Porthos eased D’Artagnan onto his cock. A whine escaped D’Artagnan, his head tipping back with the relief of being filled again after a moment’s emptiness. His cock stirred where it was trapped against Athos’ navel, as Porthos kept him upright and Aramis petted every inch of skin he could find.

Athos inhaled, as though he was about to speak, but his breath stuttered with the effort of finding words. He nosed D’Artagnan instead, his brows drawn together, and D’Artagnan could only nod in reply. His thighs shook as he lifted himself and sank down again, and the movement punched the breath out of Athos. The others guided him through the second rise and fall, D’Artagnan happy to be pliant, letting arousal ripple through his body as he rode Athos. His forehead landed on Athos’ freckled shoulder, his gaze blurry as he glanced at Athos. An open kiss slid clumsily on his temple, Athos panting as he ground his hips into D’Artagnan. Athos held him in an embrace, so it must be Aramis’ clever hand sneaking around Athos’ waist, working D’Artagnan gently until the thrumming in his loins sharpened and his cock filled out again. It was Aramis humming like the cat who got the cream when D’Artagnan began to move with purpose, his body vicelike around Athos as he hit a spot that sent pleasure jolting through him.

‘There you go,’ Porthos purred behind him, easing away once he was certain D’Artagnan wouldn’t fall. D’Artagnan wasn’t sure he could have removed himself from Athos’ lap if he tried, not with the need to keep Athos this close. But Athos seemed to know already, from the erratic kisses he plastered over D’Artagnan’s skin, from the way he pulled D’Artagnan to him with strong arms.

It was impossible not to be distracted by Porthos and Aramis. Aramis lay languid on the mattress and Porthos draped his tongue over Aramis’ cock, his head resting on Aramis’ belly as he licked generously. Aramis twitched under him, his eyelashes fluttering as he fought to keep watch over the carousing without being overwhelmed. D’Artagnan felt the same, unable to tear his gaze away, feeling Athos tilt towards them too.

‘Come on, Athos…’ Aramis murmured, his hand finding Porthos’ cheek and stroking it.

‘… fuck him properly,’ Porthos finished the sentence.

Athos’ hands roamed down D’Artagnan’s back, kneading into his rear before spreading D’Artagnan wider. D’Artagnan almost squeaked when Athos thrust harder, his pace picking up until D’Artagnan was melting, his cock straining between them and begging to be touched. He got a hand around himself and his voice escaped him, a mewling, thready sound that Athos caught and muffled with his mouth. Athos kissed him hard enough to bruise, and fucked him the way D’Artagnan had wanted for  _months._  In harmony with their sounds was Aramis’ litany of pleas, tumbling out of him until he spilled in Porthos’ mouth, then changing into a stream praises and endearments for Porthos, for Athos, for D’Artagnan.

‘Athos, I—’ D’Artagnan couldn’t find the words, his mind scattered and his tongue only interested in kissing Athos. So he did, and Athos devoured him. When they broke for air, Athos spoke low and rumbling:

‘I know.’

It was all that was needed: D’Artagnan came with every last ounce of energy left in him, clinging to Athos and gasping. Athos followed, the two of them sinking helpless and exhausted until they’d fallen somewhere near Porthos and Aramis. D’Artagnan could no longer distinguish one body from another, even his own, except for a depth of affection that must need four hearts to carry. They were sticky and ripe with sweat, it was true, and there was simply no way for four grown men to sleep comfortably in one bed, no matter how large. But these were not the slightest of concerns for the moment, not when D’Artagnan could feel Porthos’ chest, Aramis’ hands, Athos’ lips somewhere on him, and when he sought them with his own touches, found everything he could possibly want. Tomorrow they would ache, and Porthos would be grouchy and Aramis would tease them and Athos would hide something of himself he kept away from the day. But they would be four. Tomorrow, and the next day, and for all the rest.

D’Artagnan slept, and the Inseperables curled around him.

There were nights in Paris when it felt like there was nobody else in the world.


End file.
